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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23846587">In your best interest (I promise)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/misgivings/pseuds/misgivings'>misgivings</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Homestuck</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Corruption, Cthulhu Mythos, Dubious Consent, F/M, Horror, Transformation</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 20:28:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,413</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23846587</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/misgivings/pseuds/misgivings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"I only want the best for him, you understand, to protect him and nurture him to his highest potential."</p>
<p>Rose's belief in the greater good allows her to do anything.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Rose Lalonde/Dave Strider</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>HSCCS Promptfest 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>In your best interest (I promise)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/TTMIYH/gifts">TTMIYH</a>.</li>



        <li>In response to a prompt by
            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/TTMIYH/pseuds/TTMIYH">TTMIYH</a>  in the  <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/collections/HSCCSPromptfest2020">HSCCSPromptfest2020</a>
          collection.
        </li>
    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>
  <strong>Prompt:</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Rose Lalonde Corrupts Her Friend(s) Indulgence</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>When Dave first bemoans his finances, I sense an opportunity. The virus and ensuing unease has made it very hard for a struggling DJ like him, since people are unenthusiastic to pack into crowded clubs during a pandemic. When he mentions that he's considering going back to his bro’s place, he is certainly in utter desperation—and I gently present the idea that he could simply come and stay with me.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I paypal him enough to get the bus downtown. He arrives on my doorstep, and is busy taking in the architecture when I open the door. Dave knew I came from an advantaged background, but probably hadn't imagined I was staying in a Manhattan brownstone while I went to college. The way his face changes when he sees me, he must have believed it was an elaborate prank.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You're not waiting for me to carry your luggage in, are you?” I say, and he snaps out of it and hoists his suitcase up the stairs and inside, looking at the floor and muttering a sheepish thank you. This might be the most charity anyone has ever shown him in his life, a realisation that stabs my heart like an icepick. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It's good to see you again, Dave.” I put my hand on his shoulder and he jumps like he's been electrocuted. Right, the whole brother thing. He doesn't do well with physical contact, but with the way he's blushing it's like </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> did something wrong.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I keep a comfortable distance from him while I take him to the kitchen upstairs, respectful of his space. We sit in the window at a little table for two, and I pour some tea I had made scant moments ago. After I persuade him that drinking tea certainly won't ‘make him gay’, he accepts it and we begin to talk meaningless pleasantries.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He asks a lot of questions about my college life. In truth, I've stopped taking it seriously ever since my discoveries, but I still produce the necessary essays mostly out of a sense of amusement. He pokes and prods and I can sense he's stepping on the perimeter of eggshells about what he really wants to ask; how am I taking the breakup?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I certainly sounded very depressed in our first conversations after Kanaya broke things off with me. I had been drinking heavily the whole day when he came on after work and talked with me. I drop crumbs into our conversation that assure him I've been doing well, mentioning a female acquaintance I took out for coffee two weeks ago. His face blushes a tiny bit. Dave and I have been very close friends for a long time, and while I do tend to sway towards women, he must have asked himself once or twice if I was inviting him over out of a need for companionship. What I truly intend for him goes far deeper than that.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I love him with my entire being, though I will never put a word on the exact manner in which I do—ambiguity fascinates me, as does seeing the way others react to it. Keeping Dave here will be fun, though I am not motivated by mere self interest. I only want the best for him, you understand, to protect him and nurture him to his highest potential.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>That is why I will be starting with him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I don't care what he says, he's not interested in the health of the economy, he just wants his millionaire friends to still be able to buy new yachts this year.” Dave grumbles. He's speaking in reference to CNN, which he likes to keep on at all times. Dave is the sort of person who needs constant noise to exist comfortably, and I suspect he likes this form of entertainment because it gives him something to be mad about. Moral outrage is an addictive thing.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I give him the occasional reply to let him know I'm listening. Dave is particularly disgruntled lately that the candidate he campaigned for has withdrawn, and I have offered him countless consolations that he did his best. None of them have really taken. I get his feelings—he was 17 last election, felt robbed of his chance to participate. This year he will be popping his cherry. Of course it matters to him. Knowing what I do, though, I cannot bring myself to care beyond the grief it brings him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He's eating toast and pouting as he listens to an older gentleman give his opinions on the screen, clearly deciding what direction to take his rant. Normally I like to engage him, because playing devil’s advocate is fun, but today I’m not in the mood. I put both hands on his hips and he freezes, tensed like a spring.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I would like to believe this effect is due to the fact that I am a startlingly attractive single woman his age, but it is undoubtedly because he has been hurt by someone sneaking up on him before. I put my chin on his shoulder and hum, a disarmingly adorable gesture that calms him down like always.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Dave, I am dreadfully tired of the news. I'm going to put on some music I like.” I reach past and take the remote off the counter to turn off the television without waiting for his assent.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Rose, you know I can't live without finding out the latest stupid playground nicknames being thrown around by grown men on twitter and late night talk shows. You're really gonna take me under your wing and just starve me like this? At least bring me a newspaper back when you go out for bread if you're not gonna let me mainline the political equivalent of crack cocaine directly into my bloodstream.” He protests sullenly. Dave is precious when I don't give him what he wants.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“On the contrary,” I say, kissing him on the cheek as I depart from his personal space for the record player, “I am absolutely certain you will adjust to a diet free of bad opinions calibrated to generate your outrage. I will be serving delicious substitutions.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I put on a song I recorded myself. It's a violin piece, or rather four violins, recorded in eight sessions. The structure is complicated and polyrhythmic, incorporating a number of codas I lifted from my research. There are certain frequencies that, in harmony, will trick the brain into a sense of security. I don't let him know it's mine. He flips me the bird for my bad taste. In all honesty, it is kind of a slow starter. It will grow on him, though. I am utterly certain of it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dave has been sleeping awfully. He doesn't say a word about it, but I hear him tossing and turning at night, or waking up with little yelps. I see the bags under his eyes and the sluggishness before he gets his morning coffee. He lapses into little naps on the couch when he's briefly comfortable, and startles awake from them, taking a second to realise where he is. My heart aches in sympathy for him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tonight he will sleep soundly. I have made sure of that. In fact, the evening tea I made him contained a mild, odourless sedative. Merely an hour later I let myself into the guest room to check on him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’s passed out on his back. I peel away the sheets carefully. Don't think me a peeping tom, because I've seen it before. He's grown since we were kids, his androgynous slim figure filling out. I don't mind the definition he's gained, but he would look better without the fuzzy hair running down the middle of his chest. Perhaps I'll mention that to him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>My interest in his sleeping form is not just his beauty. I watch with great interest the calm rise and fall of his chest, and enjoy the sight of his sleeping visage, unmarked by lines of worry. Dreams are an area of human thought that are particularly close to my allies, and they have seen fit to ensure he has the sweetest of dreams tonight. I wish I could join him in the land of the sleeping, but I have things to do.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>After making Dave his tea, I produced a second concoction. The original Arabic edition of the vaunted Necronomicon contains a recipe on page 612. I followed the directions exactly and imbibed the resulting tarlike mixture, and allowed forty minutes for the effects to take place. In the standing mirror, I spot my own slate complexion and empty white eyes, proof in the efficacy of my sources. Despite the epithet attached to him, the writings of the so-called mad Arab have never failed me.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>As he sleeps soundly, I produce a knife from the pocket of my nightgown and straddle his abdomen. I will not be harming a hair on Dave’s pretty little head. Instead, I draw it across my palm, and the skin parts painlessly. Black ichor bubbles out of it. I can't help but smile with anticipation as I lean down.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dave's thin lips are rough and tender; he can never stop chewing them, and I suspect he might have been punched in the near past. I kiss them like a lover, sliding my tongue across his teeth, and when I pull away his mouth hangs open. Perfection.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I hold my hand over his face as viscous blood drips. A splatter hits his lips, but most of it pours between them, and he swallows on reflex. Through ingesting my essence, he will be inured to the ruinous powers as I have. It will also strengthen the sympathetic bond between us, which will be important later. When he has drunk enough of my blood, I draw back and let it drip across his chest, painting a messy pattern. He looks utterly gorgeous. I should like to do this with him conscious next time. </span>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sweet dreams?” I ask, as he comes down to the kitchen the next morning. He blushes with a visible shudder. Very pleasant dreams indeed, then. I shall have to remember to change the sheets.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dave gives no suggestion that there is anything different. I had cleaned him very thoroughly when I was done, and tucked him back in. But he looks better than ever after just a single good night of rest. It's rewarding to see him smile a little as I scramble eggs for us.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>We end up in our usual routine: I am inevitably at my laptop, writing essays or doing research on rare books, and Dave watches TV or else engages with social media on his phone. Eventually, though, I see him notice the wad of papers on the coffee table. It's a thick sheaf with lines of print, stapled in one corner. He scans the front of it and decides to start flipping through.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It is my first true finding on the occult. Specifically, it is Paradise Lost, translated and deciphered by way of arcane pseudoscientific cryptographic techniques that came to me in a fever dream while I studied it for a class. To say Dave is reading it is inaccurate; he truthfully isn't even lucid, absorbing the contents in a fugue state. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Specifically, it is translated into ancient Sumerian. The language barrier will not pose an issue. Like I said, one cannot read it, at least not at first. It pours right through the optic nerve and writes itself directly into long-term memory without ever being consciously perceived. In the coming days his dreams will be portentous, and he will gradually come to comprehend the inner meaning of the book, subconsciously. Only then will he be able to read it, when I decide the time is right.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>That it is delivered in Sumerian is no accident. It is exceptionally close to the origin of language in humans. The further back you go, the closer you get to a kind of linguistic primordial soup, from which language itself swam out and evolved. I wonder if John Milton, the blind poet, was conscious of the enciphered prophecies he was dictating, or if he was a mere pawn.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>As Dave turns pages mindlessly, I stand behind him and rub his shoulders. I'm so happy to have him by my side throughout this. If it wasn't for him, I might not have the resolve to see this through. </span>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>After sharing a couple drinks and binge-watching Seinfeld, we have retired to Dave’s guest room. I sit on his lower back and dip a needle into the special pigment, another recipe derived from the writings of Alhazred. I'm going to be tattooing Dave—he agreed so long as he could choose the design. Well, the design isn't important, so I acquiesced. I've wiped his shoulder area clean, and drawn on the dead crow design he sketched for me with a soft pencil.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dave is a little tipsy, so he experiences only the barest discomfort while I stick-and-poke his dead bird. The ink I am using will signify him as one of the enlightened, an ally of mine who will be recognised and afforded special treatment by certain otherworldly entities. It will also allow me to more easily intrude in his dreams, because I am a serial micromanager like that.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He glances over to the side table occasionally. In addition to my glass of wine, a bottle of lube is carefully placed on it where he can see. Another one of my games of ambiguity. I'll let his imagination go wild while I take my time.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He's antsy when I finish, and I use a pair of mirrors to show it to him. He gives me a little kiss as thanks; our relationship is increasingly becoming more physical, and I'm very happy to have him return the affection. So happy, in fact, that it collapses my proverbial waveform, and I come down strongly on one side of my ambiguous superposition. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He barely minds as I push his knees to his shoulders and grab the lube. Why not treat myself? I've earned it, as has Dave. The experience is a lot more than he bargained for. I'm not cruel, just rough and purposeful while I extract my pleasure. He's no virgin, but I still manage to push at his limits, taking him past what he is capable of asking for and into the realm of glorious submission where I give him what he sorely needs.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I rarely need confirmation that I'm on the right path, but if I did it would be the way he begs for more through his tears. I'm a sucker for Dave. Of course I end up giving him what he asks for. I only stop because he passes out on me around the one-hour mark, and I hold him lovingly while he sleeps, whispering cosmic secrets in his ear.</span>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dave, angel that he is, has been invaluable in the past month. Though he isn't yet ready to behold the majesty of the Noble Circle, his dreams have relayed him the dim outlines of their presence, two-dimensional shadows cast by i-dimensional beings. I hold his spasming frame when his mind strays too close to reality. I kiss him awake when he froths at the mouth, remind him who he is and that I love him so, so very much. And, when I need the closeness of human warmth, he submits to me fucking his brains out. Were there a heaven, it would be superfluous to us now.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His experience as a turntable technician proves utterly indispensable for my project. I hire out a recording studio, and he handles the practical matters while I immerse myself in theory. I spend long nights with the violin, occasionally falling asleep in the studio and waking up to find Dave has draped me with a blanket.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Yesterday, our first song debuted on the radio. By today, the effects are palpable. This composition is proverbial light years ahead of my last one. It is not merely catchy, it is viral. By the wonders of the Information Age it is already spreading globally. I expect my reach will eventually be the majority of humanity. This is very good.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The song is my first track with a vocal component. You will probably not be surprised to discover it wasn't in English. My patrons have entrusted me with knowledge of the Ur-language of humanity. It is a crude subset of their mother tongue, a soup of characters they immersed mankind in at our inception. To the human mind, they are akin to words of power. Not magic—more like neurolinguistic programming, maybe. If it doesn't make sense right now, that's fine. The “lyrics” to this composition, the first of many, will imprint key directives in the uninitiated. By the time I release the second, the first will have been playing non-stop on every radio station on the planet for days.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>This technique is the carpet bomb approach to propaganda, which is why I had to induct Dave before I could begin. My mother, isolating upstate in her mansion, has also been carefully isolated from this initiative. I paid unscrupulous types to sever her from communications and sabotage her cars. When this is all over I promise I will explain it to her. She will understand why this was all necessary, and why I had to protect her. The side effects of this project are unknowns to me, but I suspect they could ultimately be fatal. Perhaps even worse. I will discover them as we progress. The work I'm doing is simply too essential to worry about the small things right now.</span>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dave joins me in the study after the fourth and final track is released. It's done. There is little left to do but wait. I am, of course, waiting for you. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>You, like billions, have heard my music. Upon the final song completing, your mind has comprehended the memetic information payload I jetted into your psyche. You should experience this in the form of a sequence of memories from my perspective, and from there two possibilities follow.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>One: you have fully digested this memeplex, and it has digested you. Your personality is now an imperfect copy of my own. As you are me, and share my perspective and some key memories, this probably does not disturb you. If it does? You still likely understand there is no undoing this. You might as well help me see this through. Regardless, network and get online. We have a game to play. The most “accurate” Rose in your area will coordinate the rest of you.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Two: you absorbed the entirety of my message, successfully decoded it in your mind, and rejected it. To be frank, I cannot even speculate how this would happen. Some part of you is incompatible with me. From your perspective, I have murdered almost everyone you love. Maybe you can find it in you to love me?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>You have two main options. You can continue to listen to my music—long enough and the meme should eventually take. You will become one with us and assist us in iterating reality. We will forge countless new universes, and our actions will tie up an incredibly convoluted series of paradoxes. We are destined to do this by virtue of our continued existence. You will get to be a part of it. If you make this choice, I thank you from the bottom of my very heart.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But the game is not exclusive to me. I have simply ensured it will be played by a very coordinated flock of like-minded and competent individuals with what it takes to succeed. If you want to dictate your own fate, find some other people like you and download the Sburb client when it goes live. You need at minimum two, but four or higher is recommended. Don't go to 12 or higher, it never works. You will be tested to your limit, but whatever makes you up is seriously tenacious in its ability to resist my conditioning. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I’m not a betting woman, but I wouldn't bet against you.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I suppose you could do neither of these, but the meteors will see off those who don't choose this option. But again, tenacity—are you the type of person to lie down and accept death? I doubt that.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Regardless of what you choose, the world will not be going back to normal. Welcome to the new extreme.</span>
</p>
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